


HMS Royal Anne

by shirogiku



Series: Root Causes & Shaky Foundations [6]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: 18th Century Nerdery, Bad Puns, Cute Marrieds, F/M, Foreshadowing, James's Childhood Memories, M/M, Multi, Nautical Language, Non-Explicit Sex, Parliament, Pre-Season/Series 01, Pre-Series, Pre-Slash, The Royal Navy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-04 00:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6632980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirogiku/pseuds/shirogiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James takes Thomas on that promised tour of his ship. </p><p>(A direct follow-up to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/6592126"><i>A Madman's Hope</i></a>, but works as a stand-alone too.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	HMS Royal Anne

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shaitanah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaitanah/gifts), [mapped](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mapped/gifts).



‘Doubting Thomas’ is not a sobriquet that can be shaken off easily. But the very game of doubting - asking questions and assimilating the answers - presupposes unshakable certainty at its foundation. Because if you doubt everything, you have neither a starting point _nor_ means of building up an argument; it is only natural to take some things for granted to a greater extent than others.

Such as ships: Man must cross the oceans to explore new worlds, therefore the conveyances have necessarily come into existence. When James spoke of the minimum of three ships required to launch their project, Thomas treated them as fixed constants, never once doubting that they would behave as they should.

However, with each step towards _James’s_ ship - Admiral Hennessey's flagship, to be more precise - Thomas came closer to facing the fact that these wooden edifices were anything _but_ constants. Their near-ecclesiastical magnificence did not humble him, nor did he admire them like works of art, though he had to admit, this one had a noble spread of sail. If it was such a trouble to keep a shirt pristine white, he could only imagine the challenges that so much cloth must pose.

“Her Majesty’s Ship _Royal Anne_ ,” he recited. “A first rate ship of the line, one hundred guns.” His imagination failed him as to their allocation, for all that he had studied some ship models beforehand. “Built at Woolwich Dockyard, and rebuilt and renamed two years ago. I have to say, she doesn’t look a _bit_ her real age.” He caught McGraw’s surprised look. “Yes, I have done my homework. ”

“So you won’t be needing the tour, then?”

“You wouldn’t _dare_.” Not after the amount of coaxing and cajoling that he had resorted to! “May I just ask, what _is_ this line that it supposedly belongs to?

James gave him a small smile, pleased perhaps to discover the limits of his education. “Nowadays, any warship is constructed primarily to form we call the line of battle.” _Ah_. “You are familiar with the line formation on land, I assume?” Thomas nodded. “Well, the principle is essentially the same at sea.” James’s hands were aligning the invisible pieces in the air. “Two opposing columns of warships manoeuvre to bring their broadside firepower to bear. Almost without exception, the side that has the heaviest ships carrying the most powerful guns, wins. I shall show you how it is done once we are aboard.”

Thomas pondered the explanation, sizing up the three-decker with amazement. “In other words, we may yet live to see true floating fortresses?” If the only logical progression was to build them bigger and heavier armed.

Taking his inquiry at its face value, James proceeded to lecture him on the matters of physics and construction with which he was less comfortable than he would have liked.

“Why don’t you introduce us properly, Professor McGraw?” he suggested, nodding towards the end with the figurehead.

The Professor was inexplicably offended. “The _bow_ , Thomas.”

“Oh, yes, I shall bow if you insist.”

“It is _called_ the bow.”

“And not the pointy end?” he asked innocently. “Are you _quite_ certain? What about its horn?”

“ _Bowsprit_.”

“Is it very… ah, spirited?”

Queen Anne, the figurehead, wore a gilded crown, a dark green gown and the kind of look of royal boredom that seemed only appropriate for her current blinkered view of the anchorage. Thomas bowed politely, as promised, which did not impress James any. Doubting Thomas in all things now, he went on naming every single one that they passed.

“Aren’t you a handsome Adam?” Thomas _almost_ murmured, stopping himself just short. On the gangplank, he wondered which gang he belonged to the most.

“Landlubbers,” was James’s opinion.

“Indeed?”

“While you are on my ship, it is so, and you are subject to the same rules as any of your fellows.” He delineated them with brisk efficiency, in that tone of authority gave Thomas altogether _too_ many illicit thrills. “So behave yourself.” It spoke volumes of the progress that they had been making.

The neat and orderly lines of seamen on deck were rather less numerous than Thomas had anticipated. They had lined up on his account, he realised, as if he were an official inspection or even visiting royalty. So much for not interfering with their routines - his plan of going aboard incognito would have been much better in that respect. There were no uniforms in this service, but their clothing, mostly blues and whites, was trim and well-washed.

“Was this parade really necessary?” Thomas whispered. ”Now they believe I am here to find faults with them.”

“Mr Jenks!” That was the name of the _Royal Anne’s_ second lieutenant, directly below James, and at least a decade his senior.

The man’s manner was so reserved and his face so determinedly unmemorable as the introductions were made that Thomas was having trouble fixing it in his memory. Before Thomas could strike up a conversation of any length, James whisked him along to study the _Anne’s_ two capstans, one for raising and lowering anchors, and another for lifting stores. A hundred men could haul in a cable, but two men could overhaul a system.

“I would not dream of embarrassing you in front of your shipmates,” Thomas mouthed, without a hint of reproach. “Please have no fear of that.”

McGraw paused. “It is a matter of embarrassment.” Wasn’t it? “It is a matter of politics. You are a peer, a member of Parliament, and any questions you ask - _any_ questions - will be interpreted as political.”

“Wasn’t Admiral Hennessey an MP until some four years ago?” The Admiral was away on that business now, his potential new term, and in his absence, James had the free run of the flagship.

“Admiral Hennessey is ours, not theirs.”

It was not so unheard of for a high-ranking naval official to serve in that capacity, but from James’s various comments, Thomas had gleaned a hidden discontent, or perhaps disapproval.

It was always ‘Us’ versus ‘Them’. The relationship between the Navy and Parliament had never been all that easy. After the reign of Charles the Second, general enthusiasm about sea power in principle and echoes of Elizabethan glory had become a very specific anti-Catholic foreign policy, fuelled by the terror of invasion from either France or Ireland. The Fleet was the physical embodiment of England’s political and religious freedom - the irony was not lost on Thomas - a ceremonial sword instead of a fighting weapon, so to speak, and it James who was showing him the difference. Judged by ideological, not practical standards, it was needlessly hampered by often ignorant and vindictive interventions both from within and without.

“I would be the last to defend our meddling,” Thomas whispered. “But bringing the whole House of Lords with me was never my intention. Why, we would sink the ship with our hubbub!”

McGraw couldn’t help a chuckle. “Perhaps, in the long term, you and I may hit on a way to improve this situation to the benefit of our common goals. However, right now, the fact remains that we must be very prudent.”

The root causes did not end at ignorance. The other one was an old evil - poverty. The truth was, the Navy was teetering on the edge of it. If any consolidated accounts were made, they never saw light. The Treasurer of the Navy’s ‘declared account’ was, basically, his personal financial relation with the Exchequer. The sums voted never covered the spendings, and the total debt kept growing, which led to convoy disasters, which could lead to accusations of treason. It was a vicious circle, truly.

While most of Thomas’s mind thus wandered, more and more sea-terms filtered through, and his feet alighted upon an endless succession of ladders. He was snapped out of reverie rather rudely, by an entrance rushing to meet his head.

“Thomas!” James steadied him, glancing up at his forehead. “Are you alright?”

“Perfectly.” He smiled and winced at the pain. “Are all doorways here so low?”

“This is the upper gun deck,” he should remember that. James paused. “We shan’t go any lower.”

It was all supremely confusing, and without a map or a plan of the ship, Thomas was wholly at James’s mercy.

“If we, by any chance, do get separated,” James told him, “meet me on the quarterdeck ladder.”

“Mmm, however do I find that?”

McGraw blinked. “Do you remember what a quarterdeck is?” That in a very careful tone.

“Why, yes, of course! It is the deck on which the Captain or the Admiral poses for his future monument. You would look right at home there, I must say. Well, perhaps not with that grimace of toothache.”

“Right.”

To find anything on a ship, Thomas ought to be familiar with Mr Larboard and Mr Starboard. James was beginning to doubt that his continental travels had ever happened.

“I _flew_ there,” Thomas deadpanned. “On a magic tapestry.”

“That _would_ come in handy.” James lay his hands on Thomas’s shoulders and gently brought him about. “You are now looking towards the Queen. Do you remember her?”

“Yes, James.”

“Now, your left side is larboard and your right side is starboard.” He was standing closer to Thomas than the maneuver required, his grip tightening ever so slightly and doing nothing to help Thomas memorise his instructions.

Thomas turned his head with a frown, and met James’s eyes, dark grey in the light. “Why not call things by their names, then?” Why did the Navy have to code the simplest concepts into its own language? “What are the words for ‘up’ and ‘down’?” At the tell-tale locking of McGraw’s jaw, he relented: “You were saying?

Tensely, McGraw stepped back. “Before ships had rudders on their centerlines, they were controlled with a steering paddle.”

“Aha! And the steering paddle would be on the right side of the ship, hence the term. It has not evolved since the days of the yore.”

James smiled at him. “There you go.”

Thomas returned the smile, wishing that he had not chased James’s hands away so quickly. “You were planning to show me your great guns. Proceed.”

James’s knowledge was only matched by his enthusiasm, and once again, the sheer complication of the process - this time, of manning a cannon - astounded Thomas. James talked him through it, from the powder magazine in the ship's hold - which was off-limits to visitors - to the act of firing.

“Wait a moment,” Thomas interrupted. “Do you mean to say that gunpowder is handled by _children_?”

“Boy seamen,” James corrected him. “Adolescents, chosen for their speed and height so they move swiftly and evade the enemy’s sharp shooters. Sometimes, older men also.”

Evade older men? No, right, older men could also serve as ‘powder monkeys’. Thomas peered around at the gunwales as if there were some boys hiding there right now. “May I speak to one of them? Or are you hiding your entire crew from me?”

The clenched jaw was joined by a throbbing vein. “I would _strongly_ advise against it.”

Thomas sighed. “Just tell me, are there many accidents?”

“As many as could be expected. It is hardly more dangerous than chimney-sweeping, and one can make a career if he shows some skill.”

It was so difficult to imagine McGraw as a child. “Is that how you started?”

He sensed a story there, but James chose to leave it for another time. At the rear of the ship were the stern galleries, the most comfortable and expensively furnished part of it. The admiral’s quarters, divided into a day cabin, a dining cabin, and a bed space. What Thomas _was_ allowed to see was beautifully painted, with gold leaf panels and graceful sloping stern windows offering a full panorama. McGraw proceeded to show him some nautical instruments and explain those battle tactics of his in depth.

He picked up an ornate spyglass and trained it on James. “Lieutenant ho!”

The corners of James’s mouth twitched with barely suppressed humour. “Do contain yourself, sir.”

“I cannot, in the face of such treasure on the horizon!”

“The horizon is over there.” James graciously pointed him to it, opening the window.

The other officers’ cabins were located nearby, through the common wardroom. Thomas had not hoped to reach James’s quarters so soon. He could use a brief respite.

“The marines are berthed right below us,” James continued, determined to mention a little of everything. “They protect us from mutiny.”

 _Should_ they talk of mutinies, in the view of the long transatlantic voyage? But James was already opening the door for Thomas, with a new hint of self-consciousness, as if his sleeping arrangements were the least presentable part of his ship.

Thomas had not been familiar with what they said about a lieutenant’s berth, but he was witnessing it with his own eyes alright. The space was meticulously clean and so, so James-like _,_ with a pervading cool, fresh smell. It also happened to be more cramped than the smallest closet in Thomas’s house. The contrast with the Admiral’s luxuries and mahogany was nothing short of dramatic.

“I have a good desk at my lodgings,” James commented, concerned more with _Thomas’s_ concern than with his own appalling living conditions.

“May I?” Before McGraw could interpret the question, Thomas contrived to climb onto his bed.

It had a nice coverlet, and the bed linens were new-laundered. He lay down, not without a bout of queasiness. “I cannot imagine sleeping like this.”

James perched himself on his sea chest, which was what passed for his chair. His back was to the exit, effectively blocking it due to the inhuman dimensions of the room. “You have never thought of going to sea? As a boy, perhaps?”

He could not even imagine that unless as a particularly cruel punishment. “I understand it is a universal naval belief that a boy can be trained to do anything where a grown man is beyond all hope, but no, the idea has never held any appeal.”

James was quiet. As Thomas glanced at him, he said: “I have trouble picturing people considering any other career path. All my earliest memories are of the sea.”

Thomas rolled onto his side, pillowing his head on his arm. “Are they peaceful memories?”

“God, no!” James laughed. “That old braggard, peaceful?” He snorted again. “I _highly_ doubt my grandfather knew the meaning of the word. Definitely not while there was the biggest fish to catch. He had such a fine collection of fish spines and lobster claws.”

Thomas nearly fell off the bed. “Well, don’t stop _now_ ! Tell me more about your fishing adventures, and your lovely little town, too. And don’t you _dare_ recite the official data at me, I know all your tricks.”

Across the narrow room, their gazes locked, and James was wearing such a startled, boyish look of wonder on his face that Thomas might as well have been performing feats of magic, and all that he was doing was nosing into James’s childhood. He forced his eyes upwards of James’s parted lips, waiting.

James coughed a little. “Once, on a Bad Monday-”

“Why, what has it done?”

“Honestly, sir, where are your manners?” Lieutenant McGraw was back in all his glory.

Thomas apologised for his impertinence.

“A Bad Monday is the Monday after the pay day, which is when the mayhem happens. So, Grandfather and I were out at sea, and our bait was taken in by an _enormous_ fish. Grandfather could’ve sworn it was a demon, and what a merry chase it was! His curses could’ve made a dock worker blush, because he had to miss the wrestling match between us Town Crows and the tinners.”

“And the fish?”

“We lost it, after three days of that madness.”

Of all the wonders in Cornwall, Thomas’s mind had to latch onto the image of James as a wrestler, shirtless and covered in a fine sheen of sweat, highlighting his freckles. He sighed. The fishermen’s trade was truly a way of living: they knew no other, and for all its hardness, wanted none. Children grew up on nursery rhymes enforcing such single-minded determination, though McGraw claimed not to remember an example.

“The sea seems to have that effect on everyone,” Thomas mused.

James studied him curiously. “You find that oppressive.”

He would never purposefully offend James, let alone on James’s own ship. “There is something superstitious about it, I believe. The sea is what pagan gods used to be. Perhaps it has swallowed them up at some point.” He raised his hand. “Please, we can save this debate for my parlour.”

All individual rivalries were put aside to present a united front before Port Isaac with its Yarngoats, nicknamed so because of the difficulty of putting to sea from their home port - they spent more time telling tales about sailing than actually sailing.

Thomas laughed. “Really?”

“Yes. But that does not warm the relations any.”

“I suppose, in your eyes, I am a kind of Yarngoat too.”

Out of misguided tact, James pretended not to have heard that. “I mustn’t omit the press gangs.” He explained: “They operate out of Padstow.”

“Oh.” Thomas’s mirth began to wane. “You would have been pressed into service whether you wanted or not.”

James deflected with an anecdote about a man who, running away from the press, climbed through a gorse bush and got his head and shoulders stuck in a badger’s hole. He became the laughing stock of the farmers, and the officers thought him too simple to recruit. Thomas did not see the joke, though, wondering how many of the ‘simple’ folk was being forced into duty anyway.

James got up. “Why don’t you have some rest here while I fetch you a drink? Naval grog, completely authentic.”

“Don’t forget to bring me a wormy biscuit on the side. A biscuit of wormy evils.”

“I’ll ask around,” McGraw promised vaguely, and with that, he was off.

Left to himself, alone in the cabin, Thomas suddenly felt claustrophobic. The ship was in a constant motion all around him, like an old house settling for the night. His unease drove him outside. He locked the door and adjusted his wig, deciding to catch James halfway.

The galley was not where he had assumed it to be.

They were reunited quite a while later, with Thomas announcing happily: “I have found your carpenters!” They attempted to hide from James’s glare en masse. “They have taught me a ballad!” Which he sang:

 

_Fair ones are shining on foreign earth and town—_

_There lived a lovely damsel whose name it was Miss Brown._

_She courted handsome Willie, her darling for to be:_

_His trade long and steady, a ship's carpenter was he._

 

“Have they taught you how it _ends_?”

“Well, yes, with bloody murder, which is typical for your seafaring ballads, but this ghost woman finds her retribution.”

If this was Thomas, sober, then James doubted the wisdom of giving him liquor. As soon as Thomas tasted it, he handed it back wordlessly. They returned to the open deck, with Thomas wondering where the time had gone and James minding Thomas’s steps and head, and explaining how the hours were measured aboard.

“Thomas?” he prompted. “How long does a typical watch last?”

“Are we at school?”

“No, but you were not attending.”

“Four hours, Professor McGraw.”

James took it to have been a lucky guess. “Alas, there is no more hope for an incorrigible landlubber than an inveterate sinner.”

He met James’s gaze, unabashed. “I am glad you agree.”

James looked away, peering out at the water. “There _is_ one story that might capture even your imagination. Have you ever heard of shipwreckers?” No, he had not. “They are people who deliberately lure passing ships onto the rocks and then loot the wreck. It is a trade not unlike piracy.”

“Oh, but what a terrible thing to do!”

“It isn’t so uncommon both in the New World - the Carolinas, Boston, what have you - and on the Cornish coast. Picture an innkeeper living off such rotten spoils. On a dark, stormy night, he and his wife used their lights to trick a merchantman coming from the Americas. Only two men made it ashore past the powerful surf. One of them expired at once, and the other lay dying. They stabbed him right through the heart.” James showed it on his own chest unconcernedly.

“Does _everyone_ die in this lovely tale of yours?”

James ignored the jibe: “Among his possessions, they recognised a ship’s book, for the stabbed man had been her captain. It had also served as his personal journal, in which he wrote a lot of his sweetheart, whom he had left home. From the proceeds of each cruise, he would purchase a fine pearl, to gather enough for the wedding present. But the poor lass had perished before they could marry.”

“In his grief, he gifted the pearls to his ship.” That sounded rather romantic. “He concealed them inside a secret compartment in the figurehead. I would show you how it might be done, but it would require hanging off a ship’s side.”

Thomas was not feeling _that_ adventurous. “What of your villainous couple?”

“What indeed? They made haste to salvage the treasure before anybody else got it. The wife kept watch, and the man began to climb. Just then, he saw a monstrous dog on the beach, with eyes as large as saucers.” A chill touched up Thomas’s spine, making him thankful not to be in some dark, gloomy corner of the ship. “Next to it stood a young woman, asking, ‘Oh, what have you done to my Willie?’ The innkeeper fell and broke his neck, and the wife swore off wrecking. It is said that the ghost haunts the figurine even now.”

Thomas folded his arms across his chest. “Have you made it up on the spot?”

James shook his head. “I am no great storyteller.”

Thomas risked a small pat on James’s shoulder. “You have your moments, I daresay. But you need stories of happier things.” Not necessarily featuring Lascars.

* * *

All in all, the excursion had been a success, but it had also been so long and intense that he could not blame his subsequent restlessness on the ghost alone. The whole ship had left him with an ill sense of foreboding, and he found no sleep in his own bed either. He snuggled up to Miranda, putting his head on her shoulder. She murmured something in her sleep without waking up. He got up to jot down his thoughts and stayed there at his desk, meditating.

“Can’t sleep?”

He looked up apologetically. “I keep the worst hours, I know!”

She held out her hands. “Come back to bed and tell me about your troubles.”

He kissed her as they walked. “No troubles, dearest.”

She touched her palm to his chest. “Thomas, you do not fool me.”

No, he did not suppose he could. “It was strange,” he said quietly. “Just as we were leaving, a group of officers filed out of a drinking house. It was as if they had been watching the ship. And you should have seen the change on James’s face - it was there and gone, but had I not been there, I got the feeling that he would have had words with them.” One of the carpenters, a Merry, mentioned that James used to be a prizefighter. “I fear his collaboration with me has not made him so well-liked around the Fleet.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Miranda nudged Thomas back onto the bed, “he would not have accepted the job if it came with such a caveat. Not an ambitious man like that.”

“He shall make a fine captain one day. I kept thinking about it the whole time, and then _forgot_ to tell him.”

“I’m sure you’ll create an opportunity,” she teased, pulling off his nightshirt.

He kissed her hands and she slid onto his lap, her legs encircling him and her body warding off the chill. He removed her shift, cupping her breasts and brushing his thumbs against her nipples. She sighed as she rocked against him, and then, suddenly, he was brought back to the motion of the ship.

Miranda’s nails dug into his shoulders, not to cause pain but to ground him in the moment, with her. He often had trouble with his mind going round and round like this. He wrapped his arms around her, burying his face against her neck.

“Would you like something different?” she whispered, nipping on his ear. He closed his eyes, inhaling her scent. “Would you like _James_ to-” Her next words were drowned out by a sharp jolt of pleasure as she snapped her hips downwards more forcefully.

Yes, yes, he would like James to do many things, _especially_ join them in bed. He caught her eyes anxiously. “Wouldn’t you?”

She laughed. “Oh, you silly, silly man!” Building up more pleasure while keeping their release at bay, she kissed him and whispered into his ear just how they should have his dashing lieutenant.

It was too much, and they found an aching, shuddering climax in that fantasy. The moment Thomas lay back, Miranda brushed her fingers between his legs, putting slier and slier questions before him.

“Miranda!” he protested. “Why is it an either-or? I am sure he is a delight in all positions!” At that, both of them succumbed to helpless classroom giggling.

Thomas pressed a kiss to the crown of Miranda’s head. “Do you truly believe we can do this?”

She sat up, with her hair spilling down her back. “Lure him into our bed? Why, it would be a _truly_ impressive maneuver.”

He smiled, and did not ask again.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man, I feel like I should write a whole essay on where I got what from :D
> 
> First of all, I'm no Navy expert, all this is just obsessive Google searches and some books. The bad puns and Thomas playing dumb is shamelessly O'Brian's Aubrey-Maturin series, I have no excuse. Little James and the Sea is a slight nod to Hemingway, and the pearls story is somewhat inspired by Russell Thorndike's _Doctor Syn_. The carpenters' ballad is [this](https://mainlynorfolk.info/peter.bellamy/songs/thecruelshipscarpenter.html).
> 
> I assumed that James is the 1st lieutenant on Hennessey's flagship for simplicity's sake (and bc when the Admiral/the Captain are ashore, it's the first one who usually goes with them), and based the ship on [this](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/HMS_St_Andrew_%281670%29), more or less. I think it might be part of the Portsmouth squadron, at least for the moment, but that's digging in too deep. It could also be just waiting to depart for another station/being refitted/etc. I've read fics where James is explicitly on an official shore leave. I don't mention it here on purpose so as not to make more blunders. He has the free run of the ship because of his post and because the Admiral's protege.
> 
> The whole Navy vs Parliament situation is lifted from N.A.M. Rodger's _The Command of the Ocean_. The Padstow stuff is all courtesy of Google searches, so I'm sorry for any innacuracies, I've never been there myself.
> 
> I couldn't figure out which anchorage/dockyard the ship should be lying at, but if she's in Portsmouth, James and Thomas would have had to stop in a couple of inns. [Cue more UST](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6931957) :D


End file.
